


to turn a roving boy

by blood_clementine, scarlett_the_seachild



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Age Difference, Bad Parenting, Child Neglect, Childhood Trauma, Crying, Daddy Issues, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Grinding, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Canon, men cannot talk about their feelings, no therapy in the old west
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:00:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28601085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blood_clementine/pseuds/blood_clementine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlett_the_seachild/pseuds/scarlett_the_seachild
Summary: Twelve years since his presumed death in a barfight, John discovers his father is alive. He goes to see him.Arthur comes along.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 17
Kudos: 79





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> first red dead redemption fic! i just finished RD2 and have a LOT of thoughts and feelings so here we are i guess
> 
> this is a classic case of men being mean to each other because they are men and also there is no therapy in the old west

John knew the face on the Wanted poster before he recognised it. The way a scrap of poetry stirs some dormant part of your consciousness before you remember it’s from the Bible, or, more frequently in John’s case, the way you register you’ve been hit before you see the fist that landed you. The face on the Wanted poster stared out at John, and John, who knew it soon as looking, stared back.

Black eyes were set far back, sunken lumps of coal beneath a low forehead which jutted out like a mineshaft, casting a shadow across the entire visage. The jaw was thin, the chin sharp, the mouth little more than a lazy slash, as if someone had attempted a brush stroke and gotten bored. It wasn’t much of a face. But then, who was John to talk.

“Hey Mister,” John called to the shopkeeper stacking the shelves. “Can I take this?”

The shopkeeper glanced up, surprised, from the row of coffee, to see John gesturing at the poster. “Be my guest,” he replied, hesitating before asking, “You know the fella?”

“‘Naw,” John lied, tearing the poster from the bulletin. “But I mighta heard somethin’ from a friend. I’d like to check with him, and I got no head for names.”

“Go ahead,” the shopkeeper waved. “Barely a week goes by before his mug’s on my wall again. Fella owes enough money to cover Atlantic City. Never known a crook to upset so many folk without killing ‘em, although what goes on in the past of such a man as old Jim Marston I can only guess.”

John thanked the shopkeeper and stuffed the poster into his coat pocket before heading out. Swinging a leg over Lafayette and setting off briskly out of Prosperity, his mind drifted inevitably to the last time he had seen Jim Marston. He’d been headed to a town south of Chicago on ‘business’ – the exact terms of which, to an eight year old John, had been unclear, though he thought he had a better idea now. They’d said he’d died in a bar fight there. Yet here he was now, wanted for debt evasion by a town just west of the middle of nowhere.

John’s father’s face flit across his mind’s eye, broader then and unlined, the coal-pit eyes glittering with mirth as he bellowed a song from his home country. The words came back to John almost as swiftly as the cartoon on the poster, and he sang them quietly under his breath as he rode. When he got back to camp, he forewent small talk in favour of heading straight for his tent. He pinned the Wanted poster to the mast and laid down on his bedroll with his hands folded across his stomach, gazing up at it as though it were the Milky Way.

In the days that followed, John took to making regular trips on his own. He told Dutch that he was scouting for intel, which wasn’t strictly untrue. The exact nature of the information he was after he left out and Dutch didn’t ask, comfortable to assume it was job related or O’Driscoll related, rather than chasing down some until-recently-assumed-dead Scotsman. If it allowed a twenty-year-old hothead brooding space then all the better, so long as he didn’t return home riddled with bullets.

Finally, the night came. John waited until the camp was heavy with snoring before grabbing his carbine and pistols, stepping as softly from his tent as he’d ever been able to manage. He had reached the hitching post and was saddling Lafayette when a low voice rumbled through the dark.

“And where in hell d’you think you’re going?”

Like his father’s face scrawled across a poster, like an old song learned in childhood, John did not need to turn around to know who that voice belonged to.

“What do you want, Arthur?” he asked tiredly, turning around anyway.

“I wanna know where you think you’re headed, shady as anything and armed to the teeth in the middle of the night,” Arthur was leaning against a tree smoking a cigarette. The orange light leapt and crumbled as he pulled it to his mouth, briefly illuminating his face. John felt a tug of annoyance curl and settle at the bottom of his stomach.

“You spying on me?” John snapped, turning away to readjust the saddle strap.

“You ain’t that special,” Arthur replied, flicking ash onto the ground. “Damn noisy, though. Next time you wanna sneak outta camp, I’d consider moving things to where you ain't liable to trip on ‘em.”

John returned with a hand gesture which made Arthur chuckle, glancing over his shoulder before stepping out of the trees.

“You find out where he’s holed up, then?” he asked.

As was his go-to strategy, John feigned stupidity. “Who?”

“Whoever it is you’re tracking.”

“Who says I’m tracking anybody?”

“Christ John,” Arthur rolled his eyes. “You really do go through the world assuming everyone is quite as dumb as you are. You think I haven’t noticed your li’l jaunts cross country? My guess is you finally found who you’re looking for, and you’re off to do a little night time social calling.”

“You know, you’re one nosey bastard Morgan,” John bit back, cheeks flushing. “Is your own life so damn uninteresting you gotta spend so much time wondering ‘bout mine?”

“Interest don’t got nothing to do with it,” Arthur dropped his cigarette to the earth, rubbing it out with the toe of his boot. “If you think I’m letting you go off by yourself to see a man about a horse, you got another thing coming.”

“Who says it’s a man?” John quipped instantly.

Through the darkness, John saw Arthur raise an eyebrow. “Well then,” he drawled. “I’d a thought in that case, you’d only be needing the one pistol.”

Instantly John felt his flush deepen, the heat in his neck rising as he took in Arthur’s smirk. “Think what you like,” he said childishly. “I don’t reckon there’s much you can do about it.”

“I could hogtie you,” said Arthur thoughtfully, and when John looked incensed, “Or we can save ourselves the embarrassment, and a pretty tiresome conversation, and accept right now that I’m coming.”

He spread his broad palms, as if gesturing an offer of choice. John knew full well – as well as he knew that Arthur really would hogtie him if pressed – that the gesture was an illusion. Swearing savagely, he finished securing the saddle and mounted his horse.

“Fine,” he muttered, furious at Arthur and at himself for getting caught. _“Fine.”_

Arthur grinned, teeth flashing in the dark, and unhitched his horse. John didn’t wait for him to mount before he was nudging Lafayette out of camp, setting off at a sharp pace without a backwards glance. 

John had it from a talkative stagecoach operator that Jim Marston was working on a building site near Liberty Bridge. There were cabins there the workmen stayed at, not more than a couple hours’ ride. The way was familiar to John, for wagons were often delivering tools and lumber along the main road – easy pickings for robbers, and one of the reasons he’d brought his guns. Only two weeks ago he and Arthur had held one up on its way from the building site. If Arthur recognised the route he made no inclination of it; in fact, having won their little tête-à-tête, he seemed unwilling to talk at all, declining even to ask John who they were meeting. If anything this annoyed John more acutely, for it confirmed Arthur’s lack of interest in his affairs, and gave him the distinct impression that he was merely being chaperoned.

The path dipped through the trees, the horses’ steps growing closer together as the ground sloped into a small valley. The bridge stretched across the gorge; it was undergoing construction, and the arms and legs of scaffolding made it hover insect-like above the river. From their spot above the valley John could make out the building site, alongside a row of cabins poked out the shadow of the woods. John clipped his heels into the horse and he and Arthur followed the path downwards.

A watchman was manning a dugout with a lantern. John tipped his hat as he approached, to show they meant no harm.

“Hey there,” he said as genially as he could. “Sorry to bother you at this hour. But I wondered whether I might have a word with Jim Marston?”

The watchman peered at him, eyes flickering doubtfully to Arthur, loped casually over Boadicea and surveying the building work with disaffected interest.

“You debt collectors?” he asked.

“Friends,” John replied.

The watchman snorted. “If I had a dollar for every time a friend of Jim Marston’s dropped by asking for a word I’d be a wealthy man.”

“We really just wanna talk,” John insisted, conscious of Arthur’s eyes on him. “Won’t be no trouble.”

“Sure,” the watchman drawled cynically. “Well, whatever you want with old Marston, I’m sorry to tell you boys that he ‘aint here. Boss kicked him out a week ago, stealing tools and turning up drunk,” and when John looked sceptical, “Check his cabin if you don’t believe me. It’s the one on the end.”

He gestured indifferently, making it perfectly clear it made no difference to him whether Marston lived or died. John huffed in frustration. “You have any idea where he mighta went?” 

The watchman hesitated, eyes glancing from Arthur, to the rifles, to John’s pistol hanging from his hip. Rolling his eyes, John reached into his pocket and produced a few dollars.

“Think I heard he was heading up to Redcreek,” the man replied, pocketing the bribe. “Used to talk about buying a store there.”

John thanked the watchman and departed, feeling rather like an anvil had been dropped on his stomach. Arthur waited until they were off the site and well out of the cover of the valley before deigning to break his silence.

“Redcreek’s a day’s ride from here,” he said. “We should make camp tonight, set off in the morning.”

John put the heels of his palms to his eyes, and groaned. To his credit Arthur left him to it, wondering off in search of a spot to pitch.

An hour or so later the fire was burning – Arthur was roasting the rabbit he’d caught and skinned while John sat with his chin in his hands, staring morosely into the flames. Uncharacteristically, Arthur hadn’t dragged him for it, but seemed to have concluded that allowing John some temporary space for his thoughts was worth the satisfaction he’d get from riling him. He’d put up his tent; John almost made a half-hearted crack about the elderly feeling the cold but the temperature had dropped, and he was seeing the good sense of it now. Not that it was enough to move him into putting up his own.

At last, Arthur seemed to think he had cut John slack enough as he sawed off a piece of the rabbit. “You think you can manage that?” he asked, handing it to John. “Or do I have to chew it for you too?”

John took the rabbit with ill-grace, chewing pointedly. Arthur cut off another piece for himself and took a large swallow of whiskey before passing John the bottle.

“So Jim Marston,” he said, stretching his long legs out by the fire. “That a brother or a cousin?”

John indulged himself with a few more seconds of surly silence before replying. “Father,” he muttered sullenly.

Again, if Arthur registered surprise he didn’t show it. “Thought you said he was dead.”

“’S what I was told,” John sighed.

“How d’you find out he was alive?”

In answer, John pulled out the folded Wanted poster from the pocket of his coat. “Found this in a store in Prosperity,” he handed it to Arthur. “Fella said he’d upset a lot of folk with borrowing.”

Arthur’s green eyes scanned the poster, a flicker of recognition skirting his features as he glanced from the cartoon and up again at John.

“Least we know where you get your looks,” he said, passing it back to John.

John snorted, stuffing the poster back in his pocket. Arthur ate pensively for a while, chewing over the new development. Meanwhile John took a swig of whiskey, swilling it bitterly around his mouth.

“So what’s the plan,” Arthur asked. “Ride on up to Redcreek, shout around some for Marston senior, demand why he surrendered his only child into the loving, maternal hands of a band of outlaws?”

“I don’t know, maybe,” John barked, heat rising in his cheeks. “I ain’t thought it out, alright?”

“That much is clear enough,” Arthur grunted under his breath.

There was a long stretch of silence while Arthur smoked a cigarette and John took glum swigs from the whiskey bottle, eyes trained on the fire, until finally Arthur broke it.

“You wanna talk about him?” he asked, blowing smoke towards the sky.

John raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Thought you weren’t interested,” he returned, scuffing the toe of his boot into the damp ground.

“I ain’t,” Arthur replied. “But you’re in a mood something terrible and I thought it might do you some good.”

John didn’t say anything, only shoved his toe deeper into the earth. Eventually Arthur got to his feet, joints clicking as he stretched.

“Alright,” he said. “If you don’t wanna talk, I’m going to get some sleep.”

He popped his back once more before heading inside the tent, drawing the flap down behind him. John stayed up for a while longer, poking at the earth with a stick and gazing into the dying embers, going back and forth over his memories and the bottle of whiskey. Eventually, however, he could no longer ignore the fact that he was cold. He glanced at his bedroll, deliberating for approximately ten seconds before shoving it under his arm, and following Arthur inside. 

Arthur was already asleep, his body turned on its side, one hand twitching under the coat he was using as a pillow. John tried not to disturb him as he uncurled his bedroll, a difficult feat considering the size of the tent compared to that of the man inside it. Sure enough Arthur stirred as John lay down behind him, hand tensing instinctively under the coat before he registered who it was.

“Jesus, you’re such a brat,” Arthur grumbled, relaxing his hand from the pistol. “Trust you to get into my tent rather than put up your own, when you know damn well it’s barely big enough for two.”

John did know this, knew it intimately. It hadn’t stopped him before. Quite the opposite, in fact. Instead of replying he drew closer to Arthur’s body, greedily taking in the heat that radiated from him all seasons, no matter the weather. Arthur grunted, turning his back to John and re-planting his face into the pillow. In response John grabbed his shoulders, pressing himself against his back in a desperate bid for attention.

“Arthur,” he whispered into his warm neck, and again when this prompted no response, _“Arthur.”_

“Hm?” Arthur eyes flickered open, finally registering when John began pawing at his hip. “Jesus. Ok, ok.”

With a great effort he turned over, massive arms moving sleepily to wrap around John’s waist. Instantly John buried himself into his torso, the thrill in his stomach intensifying as the arms tightened their hold. He turned his face into Arthur’s shirt, inhaling deeply the smell of horse, worn leathers and gunpowder. With his free hand Arthur stroked him softly but detachedly, as though he were trying to calm an animal, as though he wasn’t even thinking about it.

“Y’alright?” rumbled absently from his throat, his voice sounding like it was already halfway to drifting off.

“Yeah,” John replied, to very little point. By the time he’d forced the word out, Arthur was asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took a lot longer than i meant it to because it is a lot longer than i meant it to!!
> 
> also a lot of this descends into phonetic scottish partway through i can only apologise

John woke up before Arthur, if waking up was what you could call it. The low snores rumbling from the warm body next to him had gone some way to drifting him off but it was a fitful sleep, plagued with shadowy figures that flitted in and out of his vision, until he wasn’t even sure he was dreaming. Several times he jolted awake and found himself staring wildly at the canvas ceiling, conscious of an incredible loneliness that crushed him like grief, and sent his heart racing.

He turned to look at Arthur, indulging himself for a few moments. Arthur was a heavy sleeper which was just as well – he didn’t like to be looked at for long. John didn’t understand why. If he’d been anywhere near as good-looking as Arthur, he’d let people gaze their fill. But Arthur seemed to be the only person in the world who didn’t think he was handsome. It irritated John, who, looks aside, lacked Arthur’s masculine grace, his strength and charm, his apparently effortless way with everyone, be they on four legs or two. John’s eyes drifted over the strong shadowed jaw, the bold nose and fine mouth and there was as much envy as there was admiration in his looking.

Arthur’s arm tightened around his waist, mouth falling open just as John was admiring it. From his lips, a word tripped out that sounded an awful lot like “Mary”. John decided that was his cue to leave. Gently, he prised himself from Arthur’s grip, grabbed his boots and lifted the tent flap carefully before slipping outside.

Some time later Arthur stumbled blearily from the tent, scratching at his abdomen. He grunted at John in greeting and tripped groggily towards the river. John did not look up but gazed fixedly at the map, and continued to do so when Arthur returned, freshly scrubbed and shirtless.

“You wash up yet?” Arthur asked him, sponging at his neck with the towel. John shook his head. “You gonna?”

John shrugged. Arthur raised an eyebrow. “You’re a dirty bastard, you know that?” he said, pulling on his shirt.

John didn’t reply, but stubbornly resolved not to wash up. Arthur busied himself with brewing coffee and breakfasting noisily on jerky and oatcakes while John ignored him. When he was done, he brushed the crumbs from his beard and held the oatcakes out to John. “Take.”

“I ain’t hungry,” John replied, rolling up the map and stuffing it back into his saddle bag.

“I ain’t asking,” Arthur said dangerously, eyes hard as glass.

John sighed, exasperation outweighing the instinct to rebel. He reached into the packet and withdrew one.

“And the rest,” Arthur prompted him. “Come on Marston, I know how you get when you ain’t eaten.”

John scowled. “I don’t need you watching how I eat.”

“And I don’t need you slowing me down with needing to be carried from a shootout because you skipped on breakfast,” Arthur replied severely. “You wanna be a swooning damsel, fine. I ain’t dragging your ass around.”

He waved the packet at John. Flushing with humiliation, John took another.

They mounted the horses and set off, John leading the way. As they rode John’s thoughts cast back once again to his father. He remembered him as a big man, larger than life. A ‘character’, people were always saying. The first to order rounds or burst into song or start a polemic about the abuses of the English. John remembered his heavy hand on his head, telling him to be a good boy before grabbing his coat and stepping out the door, and out of John’s life. He remembered sitting alone in the house for days, waiting with rising anxiety for the moment the door would open, and his father would step laughing through it. He remembered the euphoric, almost smothering relief when the knock on the door finally came, only to find it belonged to the lawman and pinched-face woman with the scraped back hair, telling him that his father was dead and to come with them.

It was better not to think about things too much after that.

At midday they stopped by a creek for lunch. John ate reluctantly, Arthur once again forcing food into his hand with a look that forbade argument. The air was crisp like an apple, faintly warm where the sun fell unimpeded. Arthur took off his hat to feel it on the back of his neck. Golden rays lit up the ends of his dark blonde hair, turning it honey-coloured. He smoked a cigarette as he sat on the grass, watching John thoughtfully with an odd expression on his face.

“You’re sure you’re set on this,” he said suddenly.

John looked up in surprise. “Of course,” he frowned, as though Arthur had said something stupid. “Ain’t much of a choice.”

“Sure it is.”

“You telling me you find out your daddy’s within a day’s ride all the years you thought he was dead and you wouldn’t try to find him?”

“Honestly? No,” Arthur answered gravely. “Fathers are more trouble than they’re worth in my experience.”

John snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. “Well, that’s your experience I guess.”

Arthur was quiet, smoking pensively for a deep stretch of time before he spoke again.

“Listen John,” he said, taking a long drag of his cigarette. “I don’t know what you’re expecting to get outta this thing, but I reckon you oughta prepare yourself now for disappointment.”

“Who says I’m expecting anything?” John retorted, immediately on the defensive.

Arthur gave John a look. It was a look that said _I know you, John Marston, and I been knowing you since you was twelve years old and climbing into my bed when you couldn’t sleep, so don’t gimme any of that horseshit._ It was a look that made John’s blood boil.

“All I’m saying,” Arthur continued as if John hadn’t spoken. “Is people change. This man you’re chasing...he might as well be a stranger. A ghost. There ain’t no way of knowing how he’s gonna receive you.”

“He ain’t no stranger,” John bit. “He’s my dad. I _do_ know him. There’s a reason he left, and I wanna hear it.”

“It’s an easy enough thing to say now. But you might find it a whole other story after the fact.”

“Why you acting like you know so much about it?” John demanded, temper snapping. “You don’t _know_ him, and you don’t know nothing 'bout being a father. Why don’t you do me a favour, and quit tryna act like mine.”

A shadow shuttered over Arthur’s face. His mouth thinned into a scowl, jaw hardening as it often did when faced with violence. Not when he was the inflictor, but more like he’d been punched or stabbed, and considered it a cheap shot. John’s stomach dropped as soon as he saw his expression, horror creeping over him as he realised what he’d said.

“I’m sorry,” fell out of his mouth. “Arthur, I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

Arthur turned his face away. A muscle jumped in his jaw, knuckles flexing as he fought to control himself.

“No need to milk it, Johnny,” he said grimly, getting to his feet. “You’ve made your point.”

He flicked his cigarette to the ground and walked away with his hands in his pockets, head bowed. John was seized by the urge to call him back but restrained himself, staring miserably after Arthur’s retreating back. He could not quite believe his stupidity. Even for him, it had reached new bounds.

Arthur was gone a long time, during which John paced back and forth chewing his nails, trying to fight the same existential panic that had held him hostage while his father was away. It was a difficult feat, for John had given Arthur plenty of reason to leave him high and dry in the past, as Arthur never shied away from informing him. He’d just about managed to convince himself that even if he was capable of ditching him there was no way he would abandon Boadicea when finally, Arthur came back. The shadow remained on his face, his brow pinched like he was in pain. He did not say a word to John upon approaching but silently mounted his horse, nudging her gently into a trot.

They rode the rest of the way in silence. Once or twice John cast a glance at Arthur. He still looked like he was trying to break his own jaw with his teeth. Guilt fermented in John’s stomach, but he did not trust himself to speak, let alone attempt to pull Arthur from the whirlpool of his thoughts.

By early evening they’d arrived in Redcreek. It was a small town, about half the size of Prosperity, with little distinguishing feature other than the earth, the rusty red hue which gave the water its name. The post office, jail and saloon were all within sight upon approach. John and Arthur made a beeline for the latter.

The saloon was busy, men having come direct from the close of the working day. A fine film of red dust seemed to coat the surfaces, from the table tops to the patrons’ jodhpurs. It etched the creases of faces and palms like broken veins, and reminded John unpleasantly of termites. Heart pounding, John wove through the crowd to approach the bar.

“Hey,” he greeted the tender, raising his voice over the din. “You hear of a fella named Jim Marston around here?”

“Marston? Sure,” the bartender pointed with the glass he was wiping. “He’s over there.”

John’s eyes followed the gesture to a table in the corner, where a dark haired man was sat playing cards. His heart climbed up his chest and lodged somewhere in his throat. He thanked the barman absently and moved towards it as if in a dream.

The men did not look up as he approached but continued laughing loudly at something one of them had said. John’s gaze drifted and landed on the face of Jim Marston. It was the face that, for many years, had flickered in and out of his darkest waking moments. The cheeks were sallower than they had been twelve years ago, the black hair streaked with silver. The eyes, still bright with mirth and song, drooped with years of alcohol and tobacco. Even so, there was no mistaking the same swooping in his belly that had seized him when he’d first caught sight of the Wanted poster.

“Jim Marston,” he heard himself say.

Marston looked up, bright eyes flickering with suspicion. “Who’s askin’?” he said.

“Your son,” said John.

The table fell immediately quiet. Marston stared at John. The suspicion had fallen away to be replaced by dumb, uncomprehending shock. His weathered lips parted. “Jonny?” he whispered.

John nodded. Marston pushed back his chair. He got to his feet. John felt the sudden urge to flee, as though faced with a wild animal, or an enemy much bigger than himself. He ignored it, standing his ground as the old man tripped wonderingly towards him.

“Jonny,” he said again, raising his palms to press them to the side of John’s face. “My boy.”

The old man’s arms came up to embrace him. They felt thin and fragile as a wishbone, a far removal from the sturdy pounds of meat and muscle John remembered. Even so, he was more than aware of the tears that leaped into his eyes and the sniff he tried to stifle in the collar of his father’s shirt as he felt himself be held in a way that he had not been since he was eight years old.

After an age, his father released him. “Gentlemen,” he addressed the table. “You must excuse me. My son ‘n I must speak.”

“I’ll take his place,” Arthur broke his silence for the first time that afternoon, already sliding into Marston’s vacated chair.

Marston led John away with surprising force, one arm slung around his shoulders. He ordered whiskeys for them both; when they arrived he sipped his slowly, eyes never leaving John as if he could not quite fathom what he was looking at. The intensity of it made John feel a little embarrassed, and he found himself regretting the absence of Arthur. He resisted the urge to cast a look at him playing cards on the other table, swiftly taking over his father’s hand.

“My Johnny,” Marston’s lips pulled into a grin, revealing broken, tobacco-stained teeth. “Kin it pure be ye? What’s it bin, ten year?”

“Twelve,” said John dully, taking a sip of his whiskey to try to stem the blood pounding in his veins.

Marston whistled. “Twelve,” he shook his head. “’N keek at ye noo, a man grown. ‘N yet,” he reached across the table to pinch John’s shoulder. “Still a wee thing! Ye telling me ye haven’t learned tae feed yersel’, wi’oot yer old man around?”

“I feed myself just fine,” John replied irritably, shaking himself out of his father’s grip. “Terms of growing, I mighta been set back some from not getting 'nough at the orphanage. But I get along just fine these days.”

Marston’s heavily creased forehead pinched into a frown, like folded paper. “Ah put ye in an orphanage then, they did?” he said, voice heavy with sorrow. “’N ah suppose tellt ye yer da wis deid ‘n abandoned ye, instead o’ th’ truth o’ whit pure gaed doon in Chicago a’ they years ago.”

“Well, how’d it go down then?” John demanded, hurt and anger flooding through him before he could hold it back. “What was so damn important that you had to leave at a moment’s notice, and never come back if it weren’t death that kept you?”

“Poverty son,” Marston said emphatically. “Th’ only thing that wid keep a father fae his bairn wis th’ knowledge that he wis doin’ right by him. Whit sort o’ jimmy could sit ‘n’ see his ain son starve 'n nae go oot 'n have a go 'n'do something aboot it? Ah gaed tae Chicago fur ah had a lead on a better life for us. Ah wis off tae come back tae ye a rich man Jonny, 'n we'd ne'er hae tae worry aboot fairn or coal or they Sassenach bastards haudin' rent ower oor head ever again. Bit th' deal gaed south, a gunfight broke oot 'n ah got lifted. They were off tae hang me, Jonny. Ah spent twa weeks in a jailhouse counting my sins. 'Twas ainlie th' thought 'n my memory o' ye that kept me fae taking my ain life then 'n thare. But on th' night afore ah wis due tae be taken tae th' gallows, another convict's gang came 'n bust him oot. Ah managed tae escape in th' carnage. By th' time ah got back ye were gaen, ah didnae ken where. Ah scowled th' land fur ye, looked up 'n' doon 'til finally ah heard they'd got ye for killing a man. Didnae hear anythin' o' ye after that, but I guessed ye were deid.”

The rheumy eyes were sparkling, tears threatening to fall from the precipice. Marston wiped his nose messily on his sleeve while John looked away, partially to hide the fact that he was also crying.

“Ah cannae believe tis ye. A' they years that ah searched, hardly darin’ tae hope...Ah wid think tis God playing tricks on an old man, 'n that ah finally died 'n gaen tae heaven, if ah’d dane anythin' tae deserve bein' thare.” He took a great rattling breath, dabbing his eyes once more with his sleeve. Not knowing quite what to say, John tossed back his whiskey. A strange, numbing bitterness was creeping over his insides, sort of like grief, only more acidic. He wished Arthur had made him eat more at lunch. He ordered another drink to compensate.

“But that's a' in th' bygane,” Marston seized John’s hands suddenly. “Ye'r 'ere noo, fate haes brought us back th'gither. Whit hae ye bin doin’ wi' yersel'? ‘N who’s that ned came in wi' ye?” He lowered his voice and leaned across the table, eyes twinkling confidentially. “Ye git yersel' a gang, that it? Making good money, are ye?”

“Ain’t no ned,” John replied hotly, feeling strangely protective. “He’s like my brother. And it’s more like a family than a gang.”

“Come off it son, ye dinnae need tae speil coy wi' me. Haven't ah tellt ye whit gaed doon in Chicao? Fathers 'n sons dinnae hae any business lying tae each other. So hows aboot ye tell me howfur this wee ‘family’ o' yers is daein'?”

“We do ok,” John said with dignity, as though he were updating his father on a career in law or medicine rather than petty crime. “Better than you, I hear. I tracked you down from a poster in Prosperity. Sounds like it ain’t just me that’s been chasing after you.”

“Tis true ah haven't had th' easiest time o' it,” Marston pulled a face. “Ye think life is hard for a poor man, try a poor man wha's best years are weel behind him. My life haes bin that o' a rat's John – chasing one scrap tae th' next afore th' world sinks tis claws intae me. But tell me, Jonny. How's th' money? It must be good if tis worth risking th' wrath o' th' law.”

“Sure, I don’t know about that,” John said and then, realising he was unable to resist the boast, “There’s a bounty on my head, five hundred dollars. This point, I’m worth more dead than alive.”

Marston let out another low whistle before cracking into a peel of laughter, clapping John on the back. “That's my laddie!” he grinned. “Lik' father lik' son. But here Jonny listen – tis true a'm in a bit o' a fankle wi' certain folk wha hae taken against me. Howfur much dae ye care aboot this ‘family’ o' yers? For if yer willing, we could add whit we've git th'gither 'n take off, just ye 'n me. What dae ye say?”

The old man stared at John, eyes wild and eager. His mouth lolled open, like a dog’s with a scent. For a hairs’ breadth of a moment, John felt a whirring of conflict wrestle in his gut. His eyes drifted to Arthur, watching them conspicuously over his hand, a cigarette dangling from his bottom lip. The tug of temptation was gone as quickly as it had come.

“Naw dad,” he shook his head. “I couldn’t do that. This gang...it means more to me than anything. If it weren’t for them then sure, I’d come with you. But I got people looking out for me, I couldn’t do it to 'em. You understand.”

Marston’s face fell. He sunk back in his seat, gesturing sadly. “O' coorse ah ken that. Ah suppose they've bin better kin tae ye than ah hae. Na, ye go on back tae yer clan John, 'n god go wi' ye. But, if tis nae awfy much shame fur a father tae beg his son, a coin or twa tae tie me over? Just tae keep th' wolves at bay.”

“I ain’t got nothing on me now,” John said, patting his pockets.

“Nae even a dollar? Ah tell ye son, ah cam tae this godforsaken steid wi' th' hope o' setting up shop for myself. But th' devils wilnae gimme a moment tae pish afore they're breathing doon mah neck-”

“Alright, alright,” John interrupted him irritably. “I tell you what. I got a job in a couple days. Can’t tell you the details, but should be more’n enough to buy your store. Soon as I get the money for that, I’ll meet you here with my share. How’s that sound?”

Marston clapped his hands together, leaning across the table to clasp his withered hands onto John’s shoulders. “I tell ye, no man alive had a finer son,” he declared, the tears bursting from his eyes to roll down his cheeks. “Thank you, John. 'N thank God fur bringing ye back tae me.”

“Yeah, ok.” John finished his drink before pushing his chair away and getting to his feet. “Listen, I better be heading. It was...well. It was good to see you, dad. I’m glad I found you.”

Marston also stood up, clasping John to him once more. “Twa days,” he wagged his finger at him gravely. “Ah waited twelve years tae see yer face again, ah’ll be damned if ah have tae wait a day more.”

He patted John finally on the back, and slunk back into the corner to rejoin his friends. At the suggestion of movement, Arthur had already been on his feet and within moments he was by John’s side as if he’d never left.

“Success?” he asked as they left the saloon.

“Guess so,” said John dryly. “Asked me straight off for money, the greedy old bastard. Still. Think he was pleased enough to see me.”

“Hm,” Arthur made a non-committal noise as they mounted the horses and rode out of town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there will be one more chapter after this, again i apologise
> 
> BUT i increased the rating, so. have that as a reward


	3. Chapter 3

The sun had sunk low by the time they’d left Redcreek behind, plunging the sky into a ruby pool. John and Arthur rode without speaking, though this time, Arthur took the lead. Regardless of whether he had decided to forgo his silent treatment, John was disinclined to talk and sat in self-imposed gloom, head hanging low over Lafayette.

Since he was a boy he’d often found it difficult to tell his own emotions, seldom knowing whether he was happy or sad, furious or hungry. Hateful, or enamoured. Now was no exception. The almost dizzying elation that had gripped him upon finding his father had not quite worn off; still, he felt it dampened around the edges by a strange but perceptible heaviness he couldn’t put a name to. It frustrated him that he couldn’t locate its cause, and cast a shadow over what should have been the happiest reunion of his life.

He tried to put it to the back of his mind, focus his attention on the upcoming job. He had promised Marston he would see him in two days, with enough money to buy a store of his own. Whatever would come of their meeting, he intended to keep that promise.

They had not been riding long when suddenly, Arthur stopped. John, who had been brooding deeply on his own thoughts, almost rode into him. Arthur swore impatiently, throwing out an arm. 

“What is it,” John asked, too tired to apologise.

Arthur’s brow was puckered with concentration. His head twitched in a single direction, like he was trying to catch a scent. “You hear that?”

John frowned and cocked his head. At first he heard nothing; then, very faintly, a soft padding sound swelled on the wind. The longer he listened it grew to a definite thudding, then louder until it was like a distant roll of thunder. He and Arthur met each others’ gaze, eyes widening as comprehension dawned.

“Shit,” Arthur jerked Boadicea’s reins, launching her into a gallop while the other hand reached for his rifle.

John followed suit, hands scrabbling for his pistol as he fought to control Lafayette. Within seconds the riders had appeared on the horizon, charging at full speed in their direction. The sound of a gunshot cracked across the plain; instinctively, John ducked. Arthur swore again.

The riders were gaining on them. Within moments John was able to make out the white hats and glinting badges of lawmen. No sooner had he made this observation than did one of the riders shoot again, the bullet cracking within inches; John swerved Lafayette, cocked his pistol and fired over his shoulder. The lawman crumpled over his horse. Ahead Arthur was aiming his rifle, John bent low to the horse’s neck as the gun jolted in his hands: once, twice. There were yelps as two more riders fell from their horses, spurts of red exploding onto the dirt road.

The remaining riders veered to avoid the fallen men, urging the horses faster. To his left John could make out the checked collar of the lawman’s shirt, his handlebar moustache. John fired before he could aim his rifle and saw the bullet tear through his temple, sending his hat flying. Another rider was gaining on his flank; John was about to shoot again when a flash of pain seared somewhere above his rib. He cried out, more from shock than anything else. Arthur immediately whipped around.

“John!” he called out, voice high pitched and stanger sounding than John had ever heard it.

John waved to show he was fine. Arthur fired again; a horse let out a plaintive whinny, buckling in on itself in the middle of the road. John felt a pang of guilt for Arthur’s sake; though he had no such qualms, Arthur detested to kill a horse if he could help it. The riders drew back before the collapsed body, slowing while they sought to avoid it. Arthur looked over his shoulder to call to John.

“Let’s lose ‘em in these trees,” he shouted.

John nodded, urging Lafeyette to follow Arthur off the road and into the thicket. In the cover of the trees they veered from each other; losing sight of Arthur John heard his heart gallop all the louder in his ears. He forced himself to focus on driving Lafayette forward and not on the sting in his side, already starting to soak through his shirt. The trees were thick and dark; eventually, the shouts of the men grew quieter behind them until they had faded altogether. Rather than slowing John sped up, keeping confidence firmly at bay even when the thicket broke, and he joined once again with Arthur.

They rode on for a while longer, not slowing until they’d passed through another wood. At long last they broke onto raised ground; Arthur yanked Boadicea’s reins, casting an anxious glance over his shoulder.

“Alright,” he sighed. “I think we’re good.”

He wiped the sweat from his forehead, looking deeply troubled. He cast a steely, hard look over John. “They get you?”

John pressed his hand to the sticky patch that had spread through the thin cotton of his shirt. He shook his head. “Just grazed,” he replied.

Arthur’s features softened visibly, though his nod was stiff.

“Shit,” he spoke bitterly. “How the hell they know who we were? My face ‘aint never been seen in that town before. Yours?”

“No,” said John dully.

“Dutch oughtta know ‘bout this,” Arthur muttered. “If folks been hearing ‘bout us in these parts then we ‘aint nowhere near as safe as he seems to think we are-”

“Wait, Arthur,” the plea burst from John without thinking. “It ‘aint...folks don’t know ‘bout us. We are safe, don’t need to move or nothing.”

Arthur’s already puckered brow furrowed all the lower as he turned, slowly, to John. “And how do you know that?” he asked quietly.

Fear squirmed in John’s stomach. He pressed it down, lowering his gaze before answering. “I-” he tried, and took a breath, blinking hard. “I told my dad there was a bounty on my head.”

Arthur’s eyes widened briefly before narrowing into flints, mouth curling into a stormy snarl. “You did _what?”_ he barked. 

John curled into himself, dropping his head so Arthur couldn’t see his eyes. His jaw had hardened to iron, muscle jumping as he fought to control himself.

“Jesus Christ,” he snapped at last. “Every time I think you can’t possibly get dumber, you go ahead and do something more stupid than you did the time before. There _anything_ between your ears at all, boy? I mean, God Almighty. ’Aint even a bounty _worth_ boasting about.”

John didn’t reply, feeling the hot flush of humiliation creep over his neck. Arthur swore savagely, running a hand over his face. “You mention my name?” he threw out.

“No,” John muttered sullenly.

“Dutch’s?”

“Might be dumb but I ‘aint moving backwards.”

Arthur let out a bitter huff between his teeth.

“Come on,” he ordered curtly, steering Boadicea ahead so he wouldn’t have to look at John’s face.

Dark had fallen by the time they stopped to make camp. John charged into the trees before Arthur could say a word to him. If he had paused to look back he would have seen Arthur start to call to him before turning away, red-faced and softly cursing. John walked quickly, putting as much distance between them as energy would allow. He could feel the urge to cry fighting to break through, like a live creature trapped beneath his skin. He balled his fists until his nails bit into the skin of his palm, and waited for something to kill.

He returned an hour later with a couple of scrawny conies. Arthur had already set up the camp, his tent pitched a few feet from the fire. John saw his eyes flicker to the meagre meat, spoiled further by a messy shot, but did not comment. John threw the rabbits next to the fire and sat down, immediately ducking his head between his knees and hunching himself into a ball.

He was dimly aware of time passing, of Arthur skinning and putting the rabbits on the fire. The air thrummed gently with night sounds: crickets and owls, the faint beating of wings and damp snouts against the earth. It all faded to white noise against the numb crashing in John’s ears, collapsing over him in waves until he felt like he was drowning. His head swirled with it, pressing on the walls of his skull and splitting his lungs until he was struggling to breathe, about to pull him under when Arthur’s voice broke through the surface.

“John.”

John lifted his head off his knees, glared at Arthur with raw, red eyes. “What?”

“I said, you wanna put something on that thing.”

He gestured to John’s left side. John glanced down at the copper stain, looked back up and shrugged.

“I mean, you oughtta,” Arthur amended gruffly. “Can’t have it going bad.”

“Fine,” John said wearily, making to stand when Arthur stopped him.

“I’ll do it,” Arthur got to his feet. “Get your shirt off.”

He retreated for his tent while John undid his shirt, returning with a cloth, bandages, and small bottle of salve. He dampened the cloth with his flask, crouching low beside John till his knees were in the dirt. John pressed his lips together tightly as Arthur touched the cloth to the wound, gently wiping the blood and dirt away. When it was clean he squinted at it, bending low to examine John’s side with his tongue between his teeth. 

“Looks shallow enough,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Don’t think it needs stitching.”

“Told you ’s only grazed,” John said, impatient. “’Aint worth fussing over.”

“Fever’s a longer and slower death than a bullet,” Arthur told him seriously. “Even if it don’t kill you, ‘aint doing us no favours to have you useless.”

John muttered something darkly under his breath, from which Arthur picked out the words “like there’s any difference”. He finished cleaning up the graze before reaching for the salve. It was as cold on John’s skin as Arthur’s fingers were warm. He rubbed circles into the sore spot, thick pads pressing down with a firm yet tender pressure. John flinched, and turned his face away. For a long time there was silence, the air between them thick and alkaline. John was aware of the warmth leaping from Arthur’s fingers spreading deep into his stomach, rising up to heat his face. He breathed a sigh of relief when the pressure relieved, and Arthur reached for the bandages.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” Arthur grunted, winding the bandage around John’s torso. “Weren’t fair of me.”

John shrugged. “Was fair enough,” he replied dully. “You gonna say I told you so?”

“Come on, kid,” Arthur sighed, drawing the bandage tight and slicing the overhang with his knife. “I ‘aint gonna say that.”

“Well, why not?” John snapped. “You were right, weren’t you? I can see you thinking it.”

“I ain’t happy to be right,” Arthur argued. “Despite what you think.”

John snorted disbelievingly. It was a wet sound, and went no way in disguising to Arthur the fact that he had been crying. Arthur secured the bandage, bending to check his handiwork before drawing away. John drew his shirt back over his head, grateful for the brief chance to hide his flushed cheeks.

“You gon’ tell Dutch?” he whispered.

Arthur hesitated, clenching his jaw before curtly shaking his head. “What’s to tell,” he said.

John closed his eyes. A tear tripped out from beneath the lid and rolled down his cheek. “I never thought-” he started thickly, swallowing before trying again. “I didn’t think he’d-”

He broke off, choked. Arthur was looking away, gaze seemingly drawn by the fire.

“Look here John,” he started. “Some men...they get meaner the older they get. More selfish. They’re so used to looking out for themselves, they forget what it means to be loyal to something. Family, friends, don’t mean nothing to ‘em. They’d sell their own kin for a drop of liquor, not outta coldness but ‘cos they don’t _know_ nothing else.”

John didn’t say anything. Arthur took a breath, persisted.

“What I’m saying is,” he continued uncomfortably. “Is it ‘aint on you, John. ‘Aint nothing at all to do with _you._ A man like him...he don’t deserve nothing but your pity. Not that, even.”

“He used to love me, though,” said John quietly.

A deep silence swallowed the words. John was looking again at the floor, tears slipping from his lashes to dampen the ground. Arthur tilted his head briefly up towards the sky, exhaled as if asking the stars for answers.

“I know it...I know that it might come as small help,” he spoke awkwardly, still looking to the sky. “Truth is, the world does strange things to people. But you got a family now. People who care about you. And they ‘aint...we ‘aint _going_ nowhere.”

John said nothing. Arthur counted the stars. When he spoke again, his voice was quite different.

“Weren’t never much of a father,” he said, low and quiet. “I did my best I guess, whatever that means. Turned up when I could, sent money regular. But I could never kid myself enough to think I was doing a real job of being a good dad, a decent husband. Hell, a good man, even. Though if I stayed for long enough, I could pretend. And when I went away, I could make myself feel better by knowing that whatever else, I did truly love them. Didn’t mean nothing in the end. I still love ‘em. And they’re still in the ground.”

John was silent, watching Arthur, eyes wide as his heart pounded in his throat. Arthur tore his gaze from the stars, fixing John with an expression that was enormously heavy.

“I ‘aint your father,” he stated gravely. “I know I give you a hard time. I don’t say it often, ‘cos in truth still hurts a lot, and it pro’ly won’t mean nothing in the end. But I care about you a lot, John.” He paused, weighing internally within himself before adding, “Maybe more’n anyone else alive.”

Heat crawled into John’s cheeks, along with something in his chest that he knew was dangerous. Arthur unfixed his gaze from John to poke at the rabbit. John watched the light and shadows dance across his face.

Night fell, bringing the cold with it. John and Arthur ate quickly, rubbing out the fire when its benefits proved less and less. When Arthur headed for his tent John followed him; this time Arthur made no comment, only moved further against the wall to allow room for John’s bedroll. He did not fall asleep instantly as he was prone to, but lay flat on his back, staring at the canvas ceiling. John turned on his side, drawing the blanket up to his chin side, and blinked over the top at Arthur’s profile.

The muscle was back twitching in his jaw, clenched tight like he was trying to keep something at bay. His mouth was a thin line, memories flittered across his face with the shadows. John wondered whether he regretted speaking of his family. As far as he knew, he had never done so before. He looked to be in pain, and John was again guilty at having caused it.

The memory of Arthur’s fingers pressing into his ribs had not left him; John felt the echo of the heat and pressure beneath his shirt as if it had scalded, growing more intense as he pressed up against Arthur’s side. He’d made every effort not to get hard then; now he replayed the feeling of Arthur pressing into the sore spot, the aching tenderness that had made him want to scream. His cock twitched in his breeches – he moved to cup himself, biting his lip to hide his whimper.

His other hand he slid beneath Arthur’s shirt. Arthur started at the contact, turning wide-eyed to look at him as he stroked the hard plane of his stomach. “John?” he whispered questioningly.

In answer, John pressed himself more firmly to Arthur’s side, burying his face into the crook between neck and shoulder. He breathed in his scent, toes curling a little as he gripped himself harder.

“Arthur,” he said.

“What’re you doing,” John’s hand had moved up to rub across his chest, dry palm catching over the nipples.

John shrugged, rolling his nipple between finger and thumb. Arthur cursed softly, eyes falling closed.

“You get off on pretending you don’t give a shit,” John mumbled into his neck. “’Bout me, ’bout anything?”

“You get off on being a shit?” Arthur retorted, somewhat weakly given that John’s cock was pressing against his thigh and he could feel his own stirring with interest.

“Said you care about me,” John whispered, grinding his hips a little. “More ‘n anyone.”

Arthur didn’t say anything. John stroked him slowly through the material, watching the quickening rise and fall of his chest.

“More ‘n Mary?” he probed.

“John,” Arthur said warningly.

Bitterness wrung John’s heart like a wet cloth. He kept stroking Arthur, increasing his pace. “Shouldn’t say things you don’t mean,” he muttered.

“I didn’t-” Arthur cut himself off, rubbing his hand over his face. “’S different.”

“Different how?”

“Just different, I can’t – Jesus, what are you playing at, kid?” he broke off disgruntled, cock jerking traitorously.

“Calm down, old man,” whispered John.

He scrabbled at the buttons of Arthur’s breaches, popping them open and sliding his hand inside. A low rumble issued from Arthur’s throat. John had heard that sound exactly twice before. Both times, they had been drunk. Hasty, casual, barely different from their inebriated fist fights. John scarcely knew which made him madder. But then, he’d always had trouble telling his emotions. 

“John,” Arthur said, and this time there was a serious note to his voice. “I don’t...want you doing this because you’re upset.”

“This ‘aint to do with that,” said John, then hesitated. “Well...a bit. But not mostly.”

“You ought not to do things you’ll regret-”

“And you know you _ain’t_ my father,” John cut him off sharply. “Maybe you ought to quit telling me what to do.”

He curled his fingers, getting a grip around the thick shaft and swiping his thumb across the head. He could feel precum beading at the head; he rubbed his hand over it, slicking the shaft. Arthur gave another broken-off moan, hips canting forwards. He turned his head to gaze at John. His mouth was slightly open. John’s eyes flickered to it, the perfect bow of his bottom lip, imagining how his own cock would look sitting on it, and felt himself grow so hard it was painful.

“Not mostly?” Arthur repeated softly, eye lids heavy.

John shook his head. “Know you like looking after me,” he whispered. “Who’s looking out for you, Arthur?”

“That ain’t your job,” Arthur growled.

“Could be,” John muttered. “I know I ain’t her. I know I give you shit. But I do...I do care about you too.”

He ducked his head, suddenly overcome with embarrassment. Arthur’s face softened. He reached between them, till his hand was cupping John’s jaw. John made a sound of surprise as Arthur’s thumb swiped his cheek, turning swiftly into a moan as he rolled his tongue into John’s mouth, sucking gently on his bottom lip.

As they kissed John’s movements on Arthur’s cock became more urgent, fisting feverishly until Arthur was panting against his jaw.

“Johnny,” he whispered, rocking his hips upwards into John’s fist. “Shit, John...that’s it-”

“Yeah, come on,” John muttered, switching the angle of his wrist. “Come on, Arthur.”

Arthur dropped his head onto John’s shoulder. Arthur made a needy sound, rocking his hips more insistently. At last he let out a gasp accompanied by a full body shudder, hips stuttering before finally stilling. Wetness flooded John’s fist. He released Arthur’s cock, wiping his hand on his bandana before turning back, laying his head against his shirt.

He could feel Arthur’s heart, hammering like a race horse’s in his chest. The sound comforted John. He listened to its frantic thudding, slowing gradually to a canter as Arthur steadied himself. His arms were still around John, one hand lightly caressing up and down his side. The tenderness of the action, the gentle care with which his big hands stroked John’s skin sent tears springing to his eyes, and the blood straight to his cock.

He let out a strangled sob, burying his face in Arthur’s chest. Startled, Arthur stared down at him.

“John?” he said, brow wriggling in concern.

In answer John only shook his head. Freaking all the way out Arthur pushed himself up, until he was leaning on his elbow.

“Hey, kid, come on,” he said, voice raw with panic. “Look at me. What’s wrong?”

John released a shuddering breath. He wiped his eyes, sniffing as he forced himself to meet Arthur’s intense, fearful gaze. “Nothing,” he muttered. “I just...can you keep doing that?”

Arthur’s eyebrows knit further in confusion before he realised what he met. “Sit up a sec,” he ordered softly.

John obeyed. Arthur slipped an arm beneath his body, bringing him more securely against his torso. John’s heart fluttered wildly as Arthur’s arms tightened around him. His achingly hard cock slid against Arthur’s thigh; he gasped, turning into a biting moan into Arthur’s chest.

Arthur resumed his caressing, the other hand going between John’s legs. John’s moans grew more high-pitched, breaking off into needy whines as he rocked his hips needily into Arthur’s touch.

“There you go, boy,” Arthur rumbled soothingly, lightly fisting John’s head. “You’re alright. Easy.”

The honey coarseness of the words, combined with the gentle caress and rough fist on his cock, all of it was so overwhelmingly intense John thought that if he looked at Arthur right now, it would undo him completely. So he kept his eyes squeezed shut, and tried to focus on Arthur’s voice as an anchor.

He was so close. He rocked his hips faster, rutting feverishly up into Arthur’s fist, head dragging against his abdomen. He was aware dimly of tears running down his cheeks, falling into his open mouth as he moaned. Arthur was making soft shushing noises, the hand that wasn’t working his cock had moved once again to his jaw, rubbing just below the cheekbone.

“That’s it,” he crooned, rubbing his thumb once more over the head and swiping the precum. “Good boy. You’re doing so fine.”

John whimpered, the praise clenching his heart almost painfully. Against his better judgement, he opened his eyes. Arthur was gazing down at him, his handsome features pulled into an expression of such undeniable fondness and melancholy that John found himself wholly robbed of breath.

“You gonna come, Johnny?” Arthur swiped his thumb over John’s cheek. “Go on. Come for me.”

“Arthur,” John whispered.

Arthur kissed him again, biting gently at John’s lip as he squeezed lightly at his balls. John’s spine arched as he felt the warm build of pleasure creeping up from his toes to grip his abdomen, swamping his head until he was spilling hot and uncontrollably into Arthur’s hand. He cried out, hips grinding down onto Arthur’s thigh, wrenching out every last jerk of his cock until he collapsed, with another sob onto Arthur’s chest.

For a few moments they lay there, Arthur holding John loosely while he lay, shivering, on top of him. Then Arthur pulled the blanket across John’s his shoulders, tightening his hold until he had John cocooned. John sighed, settling himself against Arthur so that his heart was beating under his cheek. Arthur reached up, stroking his fingers through the dark strands of John’s hair.

“Y’alright?” he asked softly.

John nodded. The bad feeling, whatever it had been, had receded. John could sense it lingering outside the walls of the tent, not quite absent but for now, kept at bay.

"Yeah," he whispered when it was clear Arthur was waiting for an answer. "Sorry."

"You don't gotta apologise," Arthur said gruffly. "I just - wanna make sure you're good. That you don't...d'you need anything? Else, I mean."

John considered. He shook his head. “Want you, I guess,” he admitted.

Above him, Arthur’s face softened. He gazed at the shadows on the canvas, fingers going absently to caress John’s neck. “You got me,” he said quietly after a while. “I ain’t going nowhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter took so long!! thank you for reading, comments extremely welcome :)

**Author's Note:**

> i spent a lot of late hours on this, so i'd be grateful if you'd let me know what you think!


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